<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Bend Over by winwinism</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893453">Bend Over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism'>winwinism</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Universe, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Time Skip, Spanking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:22:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Atsumu doesn’t know what makes him do it. He can’t remember the last time he’s done it--maybe not even since going pro--but as he walks past Sakusa, who’s breathing hard after nailing a really, truly, genuinely wicked spike against the poor green pinnie-wearing suckers on the other side of the neck, Atsumu goes in and slaps him on the ass. </p>
</blockquote>Atsumu slaps Sakusa’s ass during practice.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>480</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bend Over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Nice kill!” </p><p>Atsumu doesn’t know what makes him do it. He can’t remember the last time he’s done it--maybe not even since going pro--but as he walks past Sakusa, who’s breathing hard after nailing a really, truly, genuinely wicked spike against the poor green pinnie-wearing suckers on the other side of the neck, Atsumu goes in and slaps him on the ass. </p><p>Coinciding with a rare moment of silence, the impact resounds across the Black Jackals’ gym. In its wake, Atsumu <em>swears </em>he hears Sakusa emit a soft, nasal sound, a wordless <em>something</em> from the back of his throat. </p><p>Slowly, Sakusa turns on him.</p><p>“What,” Sakusa says, “did you just do?”</p><p>“Said that was a nice kill,” says Atsumu. </p><p>“And,” Sakusa reminds him, “you slapped me on the ass.” </p><p>“Yeah, so I slapped you on the ass. So what?” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know, my hand moved on its own.” Atsumu looks at it, feeling as though the shape of Sakusa’s bouncy buttocks must be carved into his palm. They’re round and firm, nothing too crazy. Atsumu curls the hand into a fist. </p><p>“Don’t you think,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu meets his flat stare, his eyebrows pinching together, “that was a little inappropriate?”</p><p>“What? You’ve never had your butt slapped by one of your mates? It’s friendly, guys do it all the time!”  </p><p>“No,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu admits he can understand why Sakusa’s “mates” might’ve avoided doing so. Unfortunately, Atsumu’s subconscious seems to have missed the memo. </p><p>The assistant coach--the one who speaks Japanese--is staring at them. Half the team is, actually; the other half are bored enough of their petty arguments, and are swinging their arms around or bouncing on their heels in anticipation of the next rally. </p><p>Atsumu’s mouth acts before his brain. “Did you moan? You moaned, didn’t you?” </p><p>Sakusa turns and bows towards the sideline without another word. “Excuse us for the interruption.” The coach nods and waves a hand, as if hurrying them along. Atsumu steals another glance at Sakusa before jogging to his spot, and finds his eyes lowered. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu corners him in the locker room. Sakusa’s post-practice routine is the longest of the Black Jackals’, so it only takes a little dawdling and strategic thumb-twiddling to get him alone.   </p><p>“You totally moaned,” Atsumu says, and Sakusa looks up from his bag, an expression of profound distaste instantly overtaking his features.</p><p>“You waited to say <em>that?</em>”</p><p>“Just making conversation.”</p><p>“You’re making this weird.” Zippering his bag, Sakusa stands, drawing into sharp relief their five centimeter difference in height. </p><p>“No, you made it weird when you moaned. Weirdo.”</p><p>“It’s weirder that you still care about this,” Sakusa mutters, eyes scanning past him as if looking for a way out. Atsumu’s mind pings. </p><p>“Ah,” he says, smug, “I notice you’re not denying it.”</p><p>“I didn’t, then. Got a problem?”</p><p>Atsumu takes a step back at Sakusa’s fierce tone. “I’m just teasing, alright? Don’t tell me no one’s ever teased you before, either?”</p><p>By the look on Sakusa’s face, Atsumu half-expects him to reply: <em>Some brave souls have, but they’re all dead. Because I killed them</em>. “You’re not very funny.”</p><p>“Comedy expert coming through. Don’t think I’ve seen you laugh <em>once</em>.”</p><p>Sakusa rolls his eyes and slings his bag over his shoulder. Atsumu wets his lips. </p><p>“And I dunno if I believe that,” he adds, stepping back into Sakusa’s path. Sakusa pauses and sighs.</p><p>“What now?” </p><p>“I know you made <em>some </em>sorta noise.” A beat passes. “It was kinda cute, actually.”</p><p>Sakusa stares at him, mask pulled up so Atsumu can only imagine his scowl. He can almost see the array of retorts warring behind Sakusa’s gray eyes, beneath his crinkled brow. Finally, he spits one out: “Do it again, then. To make sure.”</p><p>Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth drops open. “You mean, uh--” He fishes for a response. “Alright,” he manages in a tight voice; then adds, with a successfully nonchalant clap: “Bend over, baby!”</p><p>Sakusa drops his bag and pulls his mask below his chin. “Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“O-okay.” </p><p>Sakusa folds his forearms against the row of lockers, pillowing his forehead on top, and rocks his hips back about a foot, at most. Atsumu scratches his chin, running his eyes down the curve of it, gently outlined in a pair of gray sweats. They’re made of a thicker material than their volleyball uniforms--Atsumu supposes, mournfully, that he won’t be able to feel the contour of Sakusa’s butt as well. </p><p>“C’mon, you gotta stick it out more than that.”</p><p>Sakusa shoots him a glare. He’s almost pouting. He does inch backwards a little bit, which makes Atsumu oddly happy. In some distant part of his brain, Atsumu starts to wonder whether Sakusa might not be right, and this <em>is</em> a little weird. </p><p>“Okay, man, here I go.” </p><p>Atsumu winds up like he’s about to do a spike--then reconsiders, since that might be a little painful if he were to use his full strength, and goes for something more like an underhanded softball pitch. The flat of his palm smacks across the middle of Sakusa’s butt. It’s like hitting a table.</p><p>“Holy shit, dude, your butt’s as hard as a rock!”</p><p>Sakusa glances over his shoulder, jaw visibly clenched, and starts to lift himself upright. </p><p>“Wait a--that didn’t count!” Sakusa stops, wrists still crossed on the cold metal. Internally, Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief. “You were clenched as <em>fuck</em>, of course you didn’t moan.” </p><p>Sakusa’s next glare says <em>Are you serious? </em>as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. “I wasn’t aware there were conditions to this.”</p><p>“If we’re gonna test out whether you did moan in that specific circumstance--yeah, we’re gonna have to apply some conditions.” <em>Just hand me a lab coat already</em>. “So,” Atsumu announces, crossing his arms and fixing Sakusa with a stern, arched-brow look, “I’m gonna do that again, and <em>no tensing</em>.” </p><p>Sakusa glowers back, then turns and slumps back against the lockers. Atsumu winds up, his chest tight as if moved by the great power suddenly vested in him. </p><p><em>Smack</em>. Atsumu’s hand collides with the same spot, using roughly the same amount of force; but this time, the impact is cushioned by a layer of unsuspecting softness that instantly gives way and reacts. Sakusa lurches forward, just barely, and his mouth parts. Atsumu is so distracted by the faint tremble in Sakusa’s backside, and the satisfying tingle in his palm, that he almost misses the sound that escapes Sakusa’s lips. Almost. </p><p>His eyes snap to Sakusa’s profile. “You just did it again.”</p><p>Sakusa’s shoulders hunch, but he doesn’t turn around. “I did not.” </p><p>“You did, and it was even louder this time, <em>plus </em>there’s nobody around. Don’t lie to me.”</p><p>“Or what?” Sakusa shoots him a rueful glance over his shoulder, and Atsumu finds himself shocked by the question. <em>Or what, indeed?</em></p><p>“Dunno,” Atsumu says, already gearing up for a third blow, with half a mind to make this one twice as hard. “Wanna try again?”</p><p>Silence. Save for their breathing, and the distant drip of some leaky faucet or pipe elsewhere in the maze-like locker room. Atsumu figures that’s as good as a go-ahead, and hands him another swing. </p><p>This time, there’s no mistaking it. Atsumu doesn’t go easy on him--his spiker’s a big man, he won’t break--and Sakusa whines like a struck drum, the sound deep and nasal and clipped, like he deliberately cut it short upon realizing he’d made it. “Holy fuck, dude.”</p><p>“Stop,” Sakusa says. Atsumu’s breath catches; only then does he realize how oddly, disproportionately labored his breathing has become.  </p><p>“Are--are you okay?” Atsumu ventures awkwardly, scratching behind his ear. Sakusa doesn’t move. </p><p>“Just,” he bites out; “<em>leave</em>. You can go now.” </p><p>Atsumu hesitates. It’s true, he’s gotten what he wanted, for some reason. He won their little--well, it wasn’t really a bet. But something about Sakusa’s limp posture--as if he wants to curl in on himself--makes him feel a little bad. A little curious. A little something else. “Hey, Omi-kun, I, uh--I didn’t hurt you, did I?”</p><p>Sakusa makes another odd noise--a hard, sardonic laugh. <em>How about that!</em> “No,” he grinds out. </p><p>“Alrighty, then.” Atsumu turns, keeping Sakusa in his peripheral vision. “So…you won’t mind if I do it again?” </p><p>“Wait--”</p><p>“Please?” He’s teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity behind it, genuine need--actually, he thinks he might die if he doesn’t feel Sakusa’s ass bounce under his fingertips one more time. Maybe Sakusa will kill him anyway. So be it. He whirls, winding up like he’s about to hit the best serve toss he’s ever made. Sakusa’s shoulders are cringed together, his body visibly itching to curl in on itself. “No clenching!” </p><p>Atsumu hits him again. Sakusa swears. “<em>Fuck!</em>”</p><p>Atsumu instantly feels bad. “Oh god, did I--” Sakusa looks back, eyes blazing; Atsumu takes in the breadth of his pupils, the odd flush to his fair cheeks. Sakusa breathes deep and open-mouthed, and Atsumu isn’t sure if he’s more pissed or--</p><p>He doesn’t dare think it.  </p><p>“Oh, I get it,” Atsumu says, his mouth leapfrogging ahead of his capacity for rational thought. “You like this shit, huh?”</p><p>Sakusa presses his forehead back against his arm, a defeated sag to his body that makes his back arch and his ass pop out even more. Atsumu stares, a little overcome. </p><p>For a prolonged moment, neither of them move. </p><p>Atsumu’s on the verge of accusing him of being a <em>kinky fuck</em>, or some impolite variation on <em>freak</em>, but hell--he looks down at his palm, still prickling with something bordering on pleasure, and wonders if he’s any better. Maybe his hand can’t tell the difference between male and female asses. Is there a difference? He wouldn’t know. He’s never even tried this, let alone with a--Atsumu doesn’t know about all of that. He just--</p><p>“I’m gonna keep doing that,” Atsumu says slowly, “so keep moaning for it, bitch.” </p><p>The next noise Sakusa makes is beautiful. Just gorgeous. Atsumu realizes he’s enjoying this, blood thrumming hot under his skin the same way it does after a perfectly-executed ace. <em>Is this sexual or just a volleyball thing?</em> <em>Is there even a difference?</em> That Sakusa is always so restrained and polite in his everyday speech only makes these shaky little <em>moans</em>--which they now indisputably are--sound all the more obscene. Atsumu smacks his ass again, harder, really putting his arm into it. </p><p>“Are you hard?”</p><p>“No--”</p><p>“Liar. How many you want? Wait--how many you think you can take?” Atsumu’s imagination gets ahead of him. What if--no, they shouldn’t. But skin-on-skin would feel better, right? The thought makes his gut twist. </p><p>“Dunno,” Sakusa says, voice pulled taut. “Let’s just--” Atsumu hits him from a different angle, getting under his buttocks, and Sakusa moans through his teeth. “--find out.” </p><p><em>Find out</em>. Holy shit, does Atsumu want to. He’s only getting more excited, stomach pulling tighter with each hit. He’s turned on as hell, watching the way Sakusa’s shoulders shake and he bows his head below Atsumu’s line of sight. Part of him keeps pulling at his sleeve, telling him to slow down, reconsider--is this good for them? Their relationship? The team? Their physical health? <em>Is it, huh?</em> Good for his fucking cock. He wants to taunt Sakusa, really bully the poor guy, but he can’t--he’s just as bad. They’re both fucking sick. </p><p>Atsumu’s heart feels like it might burst as he lands another perfect smack to the round swell of one cheek, he’s so fucking pleased. Sakusa’s ass must be cherry red, like it is after a hot shower--not that Atsumu’s ever looked. Atsumu could do this all day. In the next instant, his head’s ripped out of the clouds as Sakusa makes a strangled noise and curls in on himself, bending over even deeper, arms slipping against the lockers. His spine goes rigid as a long, guttural sigh shakes out of him. After, he lets his head hang. </p><p>“Did you just--” For once, Atsumu holds his tongue. </p><p>Sakusa doesn’t react, not immediately. After a moment, he lifts himself up, forearm still propped against the lockers, and turns to meet Atsumu’s gaze head-on.</p><p>In perfect synchronicity, both of them look down. There’s a wet patch on the front of Sakusa’s sweats. Geez, embarrassing for him. “You’re hard,” Sakusa remarks. </p><p>“Uh,” Atsumu says. Sakusa’s eyes flick back up to his, and he gulps, mouth suddenly dry. “Did you know that, uh…”</p><p>“Don’t make it weird,” Sakusa mutters. “Not like I’m about to thank you.” </p><p>“Right.” </p><p>“I could help you with that, though.”</p><p>Sakusa’s wrist technique proves to be more than excellent. Atsumu supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to say hi on <a href="https://twitter.com/winwinism">Twitter</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>